Mrs. Ellsworth watched quietly, her concern evident. “Should I be worried?”
Georgiana’s hands trembled as she set the poker down. “Just some unwanted correspondence. Nothing to concern yourself with.”
The door opened before Mrs. Ellsworth could respond. James stepped in, still in his shirtsleeves from working on the estate accounts. Over the past week, these informal visits to check on her progress had become a treasured part of her day. He looked between her and the hearth where the last of the letter crinkled into ash, his expression immediately shifting to concern.
“What’s happened?” His voice carried the protective note that had become familiar since she’d been living under his roof.
“Nothing at all,” Georgiana said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just disposing of some old correspondence.”
Mrs. Ellsworth cleared her throat. “I’ll leave you both to your evening conversation then.” She excused herself with a meaningful look, clearly recognizing the tension in the room despite Georgiana’s deflection.
James watched the housekeeper go, then turned back to Georgiana, his eyes flicking to the fireplace. “You’re pale as death, and your hands are shaking. That wasn’t nothing.”
“Truly, it’s not worth discussing.” She moved toward her usual chair by the fire, hoping to change the subject. “How were the estate accounts today?”
He followed her but didn’t sit, instead studying her with the careful attention she’d grown to appreciate over their week together. “Georgiana.”
The gentle use of her Christian name made her resolve waver, but she couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t burden him with her shame, couldn’t risk him looking at her differently if he knew what Julian had done, what he threatened to reveal.
“Some correspondence from my past that I’d rather leave buried,” she said finally. “Nothing that need concern you.”
James was quiet for a long moment, clearly wanting to press further but recognizing her reluctance. Finally, he moved toward the sideboard. “Come, let me pour you a brandy. You look ready to collapse.”
She sank into her chair gratefully. The flames consumed the last traces of ash from Julian’s letter, but her hands continued to shake as she folded them in her lap.
“I don’t like seeing you distressed,” he said, returning with two glasses of brandy and pressing one into her hands. “If there’s anything troubling you, anything at all…”
“You’re very kind.” She took a sip, letting the warmth steady her. “But some burdens are better carried alone.”
His expression tightened with frustration, but he settled into thechair opposite her. “I disagree. But I won’t force your confidence.”
The comfortable silence that had developed between them over the past week felt strained now, weighted with unspoken things. Despite Julian’s intrusion into her peace, she felt safe here with James—but she also felt the distance her secrecy created between them.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she said finally, desperate to recapture their usual ease, “about remaining alone.”
“Have you?” He refilled both their glasses, though his movements were more careful now, more reserved.
“You spoke of not bringing a child into this world, of the world being too broken.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “But sitting here these past days, watching you with Mrs. Honeycutt and Mrs. Ellsworth, seeing how you care for the village—you’re proof that there’s still good in the world.”
He was quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. When he spoke, his voice held a new edge of doubt. “You see me through kind eyes, Georgiana. But perhaps you don’t see me clearly enough to judge.”
The words stung, and she sensed he was pulling away because of her refusal to confide in him. “I see you more clearly than you think.”
“Do you? Because from where I sit, it seems you keep your true thoughts carefully guarded.” His gaze flicked to the fireplace again. “You won’t trust me with whatever troubles you, yet you speak of goodness and worthiness as if you know my heart.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Isn’t it?” He leaned forward slightly, his expression earnest but guarded. “You ask me to believe in love, in connection, yet you burn letters and tell me some burdens are better carried alone. How can there be true intimacy without trust?”
She felt tears prick at her eyes. He was right, and it hurt. “Some things are too shameful to share.”
“With anyone? Or just with me?”
The question hung between them, heavy with implication. She could see in his eyes that her secrecy had wounded him, made him doubt not just her feelings but his own worth.
“James…”
“The hour grows late,” he said, standing abruptly. “And tomorrow your mother arrives.”
